It's Not Your Fault
by kittyreilly
Summary: Sherlock blames himself for a death after wrapping up a disastrous case, and John attempts to make him feel better about it. (Oneshot. General fluff drabble, slight Johnlock hints.)


**A/N: Uploaded this a year ago on my AO3 account - just wanted to see if it might get a response here! ^^**

**-o-**

**It's Not Your Fault**

"Drink up."

Sherlock dismissed the order with a vacant blink as John pulled out a chair and sat down. John took a sip of his tea, wondering if maybe the man would follow his lead for once, rather than routine being set the other way around. He did not.

Sherlock had been silent for at least thirty-two minutes, though John swore upon noticing the time that it seemed like far longer - a mistake induced by either lack of sleep or the mentally distorting effects of the night's events. Maybe perhaps it was both, or even neither. Perhaps the silence had been lengthened by John's lack of anything remotely useful to say in the time that had passed.

He looked down into his mug, in the same way that Sherlock had been doing for a few moments previously. _Tea. _It was such a feeble, useless offering in this situation, but it was all he had to give.

John went over a number of mental notes he had catalogued away (yet another thing he had learned to do by simply observing Sherlock) during his months at 221b. How had he dealt with this in the past? What had he done when Sherlock was saying nothing and showed no signs of engaging in conversation any time in the near future? What do you say to a man who has failed his every expectation in a field he thought was his defining area, his only release and the very being of the person he was?

How do you cope with a silent Sherlock when the reason behind the silence is one you cannot hope to erase?

He had never seen him like this before, he decided. Yes, there had been similar situations, but never a situation - a failure (well, that was what it was) - quite like this. In lesser situations, John had left him be for a while, announced he was tired and going to bed, when the only true reason he was leaving was to give his flatmate the space he believed he needed. This was different, this was the sort of evening where John could not just leave him be for a while, for fear he might do something stupid. Something with drugs, something... just _something_ that John and anyone else around the man would prevent in any way possible.

John didn't know what he could do, what he needed to do, but it seemed that Sherlock was, himself, not sure. He had sat in silence in the cab ride home, he had gone straight to his bedroom when they arrived before emerging moments later, striding over to his violin, picking it up, staring at it for a moment and putting it down. Then he had just dragged a chair out from the and sat down at the table, fists thumped against it in frustration. He had been there ever since. And what had John done? _Made tea._

Sherlock felt useless, he felt as though he had failed in his life's work, but then so did John. Wasn't this his life's work, now? Wasn't his primary job in life now to protect this brilliant yet impossible man who would push you away so far you could barely see him one day, and then need those around him like he needed oxygen - though he would never admit it - the next?

Tea was useless! What was tea when Sherlock Holmes had made a mistake?! Because, to him, mistakes were not just mistakes. They weren't to be learned from, they weren't to be laughed at when the dust settled in a few months time - they were to be analyzed, thought about, punished. Humans made mistakes, Sherlock had decided. The ordinary ones. He wasn't ordinary. He was _bloody Sherlock Holmes._

John looked up at his flatmate, silence eating away at him like lice on driftwood.

"Sherlock," he said, with an air of caution, Sherlock looking up at him, eyes narrow and piercing at the very mention of his own name. John took a breath in before realising that he hadn't actually thought ahead of saying anything but that single word. Not that knowing would have made any difference, as Sherlock quickly looked back down.

"Sherlock, can I-"

"Don't.", Sherlock ordered, holding up his hand in dismissal. John sighed, quietly, irritated.

"What?"

"Don't start the 'I'm here for you' speech.", he instructed, "I know you are. I just don't need you."

John fought a small smile at the familiarity of the statement, though it hadn't escaped him that it was an annoying one.

"Well, we can't just sit here."

"_We_ don't have to."

Sherlock hadn't looked up from his mug since conversation had first resumed, but had not missed anything. John was just staring down at his hands, quick to translate Sherlock as he spoke dryly.

_'We _don't have to', as in 'Fuck off, John'. But he had decided against giving in.

"It's alright, you know," he started, Sherlock groaning at the ongoing attempts to get him speaking, "To be affected by a bad case."

"A bad case?", he repeated, "The case doesn't come into it, John, I don't care about the nature of the case."

"But I'd understand if you wer-"

"Irrelevant, John, because I'm not."

Sherlock exhaled, clearly trying to compress some sort of fury building inside him, the kindling of three murders and a dead killer that was foiled too late set alight by the questioning of the idiot that he lived with. Seven months was not enough to get to know someone completely - not for normal people, anyway - but John should have at least known that the one thing you do not do is disturb Sherlock Holmes when he does not want to be disturbed.

"Sherlock, please, just," Sherlock looked up at him with a raised eyebrow, as if he was asking 'are you seriously still doing this?', but he listened - or heard - either way, "This was horrendous, I know it was. A kid died, it was always going to be hard, but... it isn't your fault. Your job was to solve the case and you did."

"After he killed another child and then himself," Sherlock stated, taking a deep breath in and running his hand through the front of his hair, "I was too late. He took the easy way out and now I've got to sit here, drinking bloody tea and listening to you talk on and on and on and tell me nonsensical rubbish like 'it isn't your fault'. I wish I was the one with the noose around my neck."

"You don't mean that."

"You haven't heard yourself. You don't know how boring and absolutely monotonous it is listening to you try and make excuses for me."

"Yeah, well-"

"Why are you doing this?", he asked, suddenly he was the one asking questions, "Sitting here, making tea, trying to stop me thinking about what a complete and utter fool I've made of myself, why do you do it?"

John's hands were unfurled and placed flat on the table as he thought about it.

"Because I don't like seeing you like this."

"Why?"

"Because you're good at what y- no, you're _brilliant _at what you do. And I just don't want you thinking that a mistake changes that. You did all you could, nobody can ask anything more of you. It's alright."

"Don't lie to me, John."

"I'm not lying."

"Don't lie to me," he echoed himself, with more authority this time, "It's not alright, John, it's anything _but_ alright and you think so, too. You said it yourself, two children died. _You're_ the one who has been affected, _you're_ the one who left the room while I was talking to Lestrade and came back having obviously been crying, and yet _you're _the one trying to make me feel better about it, well I'm not buying into it, alright?"

"Sherlock-"

"Saying it's alright, John, you're convincing nobody, least of all me and certainly not yourself."

John allowed himself a second to calm down, but it proved pointless. Bloody Sherlock. He was trying to help him and all he got was anger and instruction in return! Why did he bother? Why did he even attempt to do anything for a man who would accept a gun to the head a million times over before he even remotely accepted help?!

"Alright. You're right, once again, Sherlock! Well bloody done!" he told him, sarcastically, standing up and walking into the living room, tired of the endless trying and failing, over and over, in a cycle that did no good for Sherlock and did even less for him, "You know what? No. It's not alright, it really isn't alright. Two kids died. But, do you know what? There's nothing you could have done to save them. Nothing. Not that I think telling you is going to do any good, you stubborn arsehole!"

"You always know the right thing to say, don't you?", Sherlock sneered, obvious sarcasm lining his tone. John was fuming, looking at him in disbelief, and Sherlock showing faint signs of guilt as he realised what he had said.

"That's just it, though!", John shouted at him, brows furrowed, "I don't know what to say, Sherlock, I haven't a clue in hell what I'm meant to say to you, and yet I'm stupid enough to keep trying, aren't I?! It doesn't make a blind bit of difference what I say, but I keep trying, because for some reason I'll never know, I still actually care for you! Despite everything, I actually care!"

Silence emerged once again as they simply stared each other out. Sherlock's expression was softer, but John's fists were clenched at his side.

One of them needed to move eventually, and it was Sherlock who did. He simply turned away. John just sighed, despaired - for a moment, he'd sworn it was there in Sherlock's expression. Remorse, guilt, anything resembling regret. But Sherlock had promptly removed those expectations in that one single movement.

And that was enough for John. That was enough for him to know that nothing he could say would change a thing.

"Where are you going?", Sherlock asked, seconds later, as John pulled on his coat. The response was sharp and emotionless.

"Out."

-o-

Sherlock was in the very same place when John returned. Elbows on the table, forearms propping up his head as his fingers were buried in his hair, the now stone-cold mug of tea standing unfinished in front of him.

John took off his coat and threw it over the back of the sofa, standing at the crossover of the kitchen and living room and watching him for a moment.

"You're not still thinking about the case, are you?", he asked. The question may have been an insensitive one, but was spoken softly, and meant in the same way. It was like he'd told him - despite everything, John still cared for Sherlock. John still hated to see him subjecting himself to such an emotional beating over factors he couldn't control. John still spent the last hour and a half next door in the cafe, unable to take even a sip at his coffee for wondering if Sherlock was alright, if he was still tearing himself apart in the flat. He intended to stay until closing time, giving Sherlock and himself the space they both needed. In the end, he hadn't been able to keep his mind from wandering back to him. He was worried, too worried.

"No."

"Alright, just... I was wondering."

Sherlock was silent still as he walked through to the kitchen, collecting his cup from in front of him and stating the obvious, simply for lack of anything better to say.

"Your tea went cold."

John leaned with his back against the kitchen counter, having placed the mug in the sink. He prepared himself for some sarcastic reply, for Sherlock to smirk and tell him 'that's because it's been almost two hours, John', but he didn't.

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock looked up after he'd spoken, waiting for however John might react. His eyes were cold and emotionless, but he meant the words so sincerely.

John smiled warmly and pulled out the nearest chair, sitting back down at the table, and there they were, in the same position they were in before the argument started.

"When I lost my first patient," John started, "I thought that was it, I thought... how am I going to do this? For a life? I can't keep people alive, that's what I'm meant to be doing, if I can't do that, there's no point. I didn't sleep for days, just thinking about it. It was my first week in the job and I'd lost someone, but it felt worse than lost, it felt like... I'd killed them, I don't know."

John took a breath and glanced up at Sherlock - his expectations proved wrong for the third time that night. Sherlock would surely have been looking down at the table, hearing but paying no attention. Wouldn't he? Instead, he was staring right at him, hanging on his every word.

"And I knew it wouldn't be the last patient I lost, and I knew it would never stop hurting when it happened, but... well, I knew it wasn't my fault, too, but it felt so much like it was. Eventually, I just thought, you know, I can't live like this anymore. I can't beat myself up every time, because I always lost these patients to different things and they were all different, but the one thing that stayed the same was that it wasn't my fault." John looked up to check he was still being listened to, "Is this making any sense? Because explaining isn't my strong point, Sherlock, it really isn't."

Sherlock nodded. John continued.

"Over the years, I've just learned that sometimes there's just nothing you can do. And it's still upsetting, obviously it is, but I think I've just become desensitised to it."

"But you're the most emotional person I know," Sherlock told him, "I caught you crying at The Jeremy Kyle Show."

John would have debated that it wasn't just any episode of Jeremy Kyle, and that a father being reunited with his long lost son on national television is enough to induce emotion in most people, but he decided against this, simply smiling instead.

"In most cases, yes, but... I don't know. It seems like the most human part of you is the most inhuman part of me. I can cope with this. With loss, with mistakes. But you can't."

"I can cope."

"You've done a fine job tonight, haven't you? I'm sat there trying to talk you round and you threw a tantrum." Sherlock said nothing in response. John's tone softened. "And I don't blame you, I really don't. That was horrendous tonight, like I said."

"I shouldn't make mistakes."

"Sherlock."

"John." Sherlock stared him out before continuing, "I never make mistakes."

"Everybody makes mistakes."

"And then they accept them and move on. Is that right? I don't make mistakes, John, I make errors. And I'm important. I'm so, so important, so when I make errors... they can't just be accepted and moved on from. There's lives on the line."

"So, you and me are more similar than you think."

"You mean 'you and _I'_, not 'you and _me_'.", he began, smirking. John was somewhat relieved to see Sherlock returning to his usual tone, "And no. We're not similar."

"Then what are we?"

Sherlock simply smiled.

"Oh. Okay. I have no idea what that look's for but okay." John laughed, smiling and standing up from the table, "I'm going to go and get some sleep, then."

"Goodnight."

"Night.", he waved, heading for the door to his bedroom, before turning round one last time, "Oh and Sherlock, don't... stay up all night thinking, right?"

"Mhm."

And just like that, Sherlock seemed to be preoccupied by mould that had accumulated on a slice of old bread that had been on the table for a while, among skin tissue samples and a thumb that he'd 'borrowed' from St. Bart's.

The night had been truly unbearable, and he still blamed himself. John had made him feel no better on that front - not at all. But he felt comforted by the notion that John had felt the same, a thought that would have bothered him had it been anyone else. It would have made him feel ordinary, would have made him feel like everybody else, normal - but this was John Watson, and Sherlock had decided that John Watson was not ordinary. They were not the same, he was in no way ready to admit that they had plenty of similarities, but he and John were not as opposite as he may have first thought.

Sherlock yawned, before standing up, switching off the kitchen light and heading to his room, stopping midway, his hand hover the handle of John's bedroom door.

No. Not now, not at four in the morning.

He would thank him tomorrow, instead. He wasn't sure what for, but he knew he would thank him.

**-o-**

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